


clutter

by orphan_account



Series: the holidays are memorable [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcoholism, Frisk is just mentioned, Maybe some implied fontcest, Mentioned Abuse, PTSD, Past Abuse, Sans hates thanksgiving, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: when they ask you if you miss your father you laugh





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry

There’s too much noise, too much, too much,  _ too much noise _ .

It’s just loud.

Your fists are tight.

See, they think it’s fun. They think this is fine. You tell them it’s fine.

You haven’t been this tense in so long.

It feels like back when your father was alive.

When your  _ family _ would join and laugh and dad would get so drunk that he can’t walk straight and you would wait.

You would wait.

Because after the dinner ( _ why aren’t you eating? Come on, you’re less than skin and bones _ and you’d laugh because you had to) he would corner you and his belt would drop, and he would hold you there as he hurt you.

At least your brother would always be gone.

And then down came his pants and your throat would hurt.

And he would say the worst things ( _ you like that, don’t you? You fucking freak _ and his voice would crack and you would swallow down whatever you had to) and after that he’d make you sit in his lap and your bones felt dirty.

He called you his  _ good boy _ ( _ you weren’t his to use like this you’re not his good boy you’re not  _ **_then why do you listen_ ** ) and his fingers would find your pelvis and if your magic didn’t form what he wanted by the time they were there you’d be thrown to the floor and beaten again and the whole thing would repeat itself. 

You hated it when he would actually penetrate you, and you were always left sobbing and clinging to his neck but you stopped calling him  _ Daddy _ by the time you were ten because he loved it and it would only hurt more when you pleased him.

It’s too loud it’s too loud it’s  _ too loud _ .

Somebody (you think it’s Frisk, the sweet little thing) asks if you’re alright and you don’t know if you reply but you force yourself to loosen yourself and swallow the fear at the back of your throat. They seem satisfied with whatever you must have said, you must have said something.

God, you just wanted them to stop talking.

Your brother is probably here, somewhere. You should find him. But lead is trapped in your bones and you can’t even bear to turn you head, and you sink a little lower into your chair.

The voice returns, asking, and this time it’s the same old  _ why aren’t you eating? _ and your body tightens, your throat closes up oh no.

No, no, no, you don’t need to be even  _ more _ of a burden no.

“ _ Sans _ ,” they say.

You stand back and you think the chair clutters behind you because suddenly the noise is gone and you’re back to reality. You can feel excess magic boiling at the start of your throat like bile because everyone is _staring_ at you and— and. You’re gone before anybody can say a word, rush out and the door slams shut and you’ve ruined it,  you’ve _ruined_ it.

You hate thanksgiving.

You hate it you hate it you  _ hate it _ so  _ much _ . You can’t leave your brother here without a car, that would make you feel worse, so you slump down in the freezing grass and curl your knees to your chest.

_ Good boy good boy good boy good boy good boy _ it’s a mantra. Your head is spinning. There’s a faint noise that you can identify as your bones rattling, trembling. It’s cold. Your hands are cold.

See, you’re selfish. Out here, forcing yourself in the crisp air, away from anyone who could help you. There was a clear  _ don’t follow me _ in the way the door closed and you even left your hoodie inside. At least you have a sweater on.

You’re trying to be a damsel in distress. It’s so  _ stupid _ . You’re stupid. You do it constantly, you want attention, you want somebody to save you but of course it  _ doesn’t work _ because nobody  _ wants _ somebody so selfish as you.

You sort of wish it was snowing. Maybe somebody would actually come out, then.

…but then somebody opens the door. You don’t look at that somebody ( _ attention whore attention whore attention whore _ ) and they don’t go back inside, the door gently shuts and the grass shifts under their shoes before they sit next to you. It’s your brother. Why wouldn’t it be your brother? You don’t say anything, turn your head away ( _ nobody wants you _ ) but an arm still wraps around you, pauses, and then pulls you close.

…you’re getting your wish and you feel worse than before.

“Come here,” he mumbles, right up against your skull and then you’re turning to him and hugging him and the tears finally come, heavy and burning your throat and the little noise that rips from your throat is pathetic.

You’re pathetic.

Those hands remind you of his and that face reminds you of him and that pressure on your spine you’ve felt too many times  _ stop it _ .

“It’s okay,” he says, and you think he’s crying too.


End file.
